Whoever Said Playgrounds Were Fun
by Laverva McGown
Summary: Upon stumbling across a playground murder scene, Sherlock encounters something even more terrifying than death - John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

_Whoever said playgrounds are fun were sooo wrong, _I spat grumblingly to myself, slamming my foot even harder onto the accelerator. The car flew forward, but I, oblivious to the carnage that was being created around me as I flew through the red light, remained firmly in my seat. I hadn't customised my seatbelt for nothing. And hey, chains aren't _that _uncomfortable.

Realizing that I was getting off-topic, I hastily reminded myself of the horrendous place I was about to go to. _Oh, shit_, I scowled. I glanced up at myself in the rear view mirror, which, surprisingly, did nothing to lift my spirits. Damn, I must've really hated playgrounds.

I came to the conclusion that I was inside the carpark of the playground, and, swearing to myself, I parked in the middle of the lot. I leaned back in my seat, breathing heavily. _I hate this flipping job, _I grumbled to myself. _I mean, I _know_ I'm a genius, but after a while detective work gets very...dull._

I glared at a mother who was leading a small child to the swings and, resigning myself to the fact that I didn't really have another choice, I chose to suck it up.

-Twenty minutes later-

Having finally gained enough willpower to get myself out of the cardoor, I winced as I heard someone yell my name. "Sherrr-lock!" I swore loudly and slammed the door shut.

"Sherly!"

I would recognize that irritatingly friendly voice anywhere.

"What do you want, Watson!?" I snapped, pushing past him.

"Geez," he said, eyeing me. "PMS."

"Assuming that that _wasn't _the answer to my question, can I deduce that you somehow think yourself clever enough to actually help me?"

"...yes."

**-1/2 hour later-**

I'd finally left the parking lot, and was currently waltzing angrily down the path of the park. 30 more seconds and I'd have reached the edge of the playground. Damn.

Beside me, Watson chattered excitedly about all things idiotic.

"So, like, Selena Gomez got a new boyfriend, and, like..." He suddenly broke off dreamily. "I wish _I _could do that. Get a boyfriend, I mean."

I'd known he was gay for a while, so the news did not disturb me especially. His expression, and his eyes (which were fixed on me), did, however, and I was about to say so when-

_BAM!_

"SHIT!" I yelled-


	2. Chapter 2

**-Two Hours Later-**

I woke up to the smell of blood and a dull ringing in my eyes. I winced and blinked groggily.

"What-What happened?" I mumbled. My eyes were open, but everything was blurred – too blurry for me to actually see Watson, but I felt his presence. The man was a charmer.

Not in that way.

Eventually, the fogginess in my eyes cleared and I was able to make out the figure of my servant, a small bell in his hand. (His hand was next to my ear). I scowled, but stopped because it hurt.

"What are you doing?" I demanded. He stopped ringing guiltily. Coincidently, so did the ringing in my head. I blinked, and a few moments later 2 and 2 slid together in my mind. They don't call me the world's greatest detective for nothing.

"That bell," I snapped "made me think that my HEAD WAS RINGING!"

Watson blinked now. I punched him in the eye.

**-Ten Minutes Later-**

I was standing on the edge of the playground, looking irritably at what was _supposed _to be a crime zone. It wasn't, obviously – but someone HAD died and as a citizen of Britain it was my solemn duty to find the culprit. I rubbed my strained temples. Oh, the burden of responsibility. I allowed myself to sit on a nearby park bench as I contemplated the evidence.

1: The victim, a fifty-year-old woman, had been stabbed in the heart. Repeatedly.

2: A knife had been found in a pool of blood, just beside her.

**-20 Minutes Later-**

"SHE WAS STABBED WITH A KNIFE." Tears of joy ran down my face.

**-10 Secs. Later-**

Watson brought me my equipment from my car and I carefully tested the knife handle for fingerprints.

"These are your fingerprints," I said flatly. Watson paled.

"But-"

"Wait...and these are mine!" I began to panic. Could I possibly be schizophrenic, with an alter ego who snuck out at night and –

"We _did _forget to wear gloves as we picked up the knife," Watson reminded me.

"Oh, yeah."

**-A Minute Later-**

With no (obvious) way to rectify Watson's blunder, I took to sitting at the part bench debating which course of action to take.

"Watson," I said lightly, getting to my feet, "I'm going home."

"W-what?" Watson spluttered.

"I am travelling to my house."

"But, but master..." Watson said hesitantly, "with all due respect, someone's just died. Surely you can -."

"Pick me up a Happy Meal on your way back."

**-15 Minutes Later-**

"HOME SWEET HOME," I proclaimed dramatically, having just entered the foyer of my 8-storey-mansion. Screw that 221B Baker St. shit.

I navigated my way back to elevator, where I promptly took it to the roof. Yes, I have a pool on the roof. Be jealous.

I was in the middle of stripping when Watson barged through the white marble entryway and into one of the tiled rooms surrounding the room.

"How the hell did you get through security this time?" I yawned, accepting the McDonald's package he handed me. Watson looked affronted.

"I used a sample of your fingerprints, wore a mask, jammed the laser beams with various metal objects and forged your signature."

"Watson?" I said, rummaging through the Happy Meal for my toy.

"Yes?"

"You didn't tell me how you got past those six tall, well-built, muscular black bodyguards I placed at the entrance."

A blush spread across Watson's cheeks, and I groaned.

"All six? What, did you make them wait in line or something?"

"Hey," he said in an offended tone.

I punched him.


End file.
